


there's a price to pay, and a consequence

by notavodkashot



Series: FFXV one shots [14]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Political Alliances, Politics, Royalty, Tremendous Amounts of Godslaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 18:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17647982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/pseuds/notavodkashot
Summary: Iedolas decides not to burn Fenestala Manor to the ground, but rather offer Regis and Sylva another route, than blasted prophecy built on human sacrifice.





	there's a price to pay, and a consequence

They call him righteous. They call him benevolent. But they will not call him holy. Holiness belongs exclusively to the King hidden beneath the shadows of the Wall, sequestered under impenetrable defenses that won’t budge under the rage of imperial fire, but that will also never gain a single inch from where they are now.

Iedolas does not want to be holy, however.

Iedolas understands, the price of holy.

Holy is scattered shrines across the land, piled high with the best of harvests and yields, to try and pacify the Gods. Even though the people most likely to be behind the gesture are the people most likely to be starving. Even though the gods they pray to are deaf to human suffering – some of them, he knows, actually demand it, relishing in blood spilled in their name. Even though Iedolas walked the length of his lands, once, when he was young, and promised the Farlands, empty, barren wastelands that they are, the same comforts of Gralea herself, and then, twenty years later, _delivered it_.

He is not holy, no. He abhors divinity and all its ilk. He abhors the Crystal prophecy, most of all.

If gods were truly great, he thinks, gods would have wiped away the Scourge on their own. But they didn’t, either because they can’t, or because they didn’t want to. If the gods can’t destroy the Scourge, and instead must depend on a human to accomplish it, then they are meek and feeble and not worth worshiping at all. And if they could destroy the Scourge, but won’t, not until they’re paid with blood by human sacrifice, then they are monstrous and not worth worshiping at all.

His logic, he knows, is sound. That’s why he’s got Besithia, forever grumbling about budgets and requests, researching the Scourge. That’s why he’s got Ardyn, monstrous, tainted creature he is, advising him on this. That’s why he’s got Glauca, loyal only to his own vengeance, conspiring to let Iedolas deliver it for him.

Because so long Insomnia stands, cradled in its Wall, curled around its Crystal… so long the ignominy of the gods will remain. Lucis and its King, the last link in a chain of prophecy. Iedolas has ordered gods themselves dead, has proven it can be done. All that is needed, to truly wipe their poison from their world, is for Lucis to fold and its King to abandon his faith.

If Mors Lucis Caelum still sat the throne, Iedolas knows, it would be feasible. The Hollow King had been a brilliant military mind, one that single-handedly drove Iedolas’ father into an early grave via sheer drinking required to cope with the absolute insanity he came up with to maintain the war’s status quo. Mors, Iedolas thinks, would have been smart enough to agree with him, that the war was pointless and unnecessary, started eons before their time, carried on purely by the momentum of blindsided retaliation. It would be a very different world, indeed, if Mors were the King Iedolas had to deal with. He entertained the thought, fleeting, disgruntled fancy that it was, every time he was reminded of the King he did have to deal with.

Regis is… unconventional. Too soft in places, too ruthless in others. Glauca hisses about his overblown sentimentality, when it comes to his son, and in the next breath Besithia rages at the so-called Immortal being sent out and destroying everything so carefully designed to disprove the moniker. If he were anything other than himself, Iedolas might even admit to liking him for it. Alas, he’s been playing this game too long to not know better: he keeps meticulous count of his likes and dislikes, and he can hardly spare either to Regis Lucis Caelum.

Still, when the news come, in quick succession: Besithia’s latest pet failure to take out the royal family, and Tenebrae’s hospitality to heal the ailing crown prince… well. Iedolas thinks. Stops. Ponders. He hears Glauca, in the back of his mind, hissing for revenge, demanding his pound of flesh and blood. The King can’t afford a full guard, sneaking into Tenebrae past the heavy defenses of the Empire. He would be vulnerable there. And his son has been harmed, of course, which adds to the weight holding him down, pinning him in place. It would be easy, the voice in the back of Iedolas’ head croons, soft and begging like Glauca never is, for all it’s his voice that echoes between Iedolas’ ears: It would be easy to give the word and have Tenebrae burn once more. It would rid Iedolas of the Lucian Kings for good, snuffing out the dynasty before the war stretches on too long – fifteen to twenty years more, Iedolas thinks, math and strategy weighed in quickly and off-handedly in the back of his awareness – and it would rid him of the Oracle and her blood, too, free his land of the shackles of god worship idiocy that has thus far remained despite it all. It would be easy.

_Easy._

“You will not do that again,” Iedolas says, looking over his shoulder at the darkest corner of his study, “or I will return you to the earth, to rot away another two thousand years.”

Ardyn laughs, crawling out of the spaces between the shadows, pulling down his hat to hide the oozing Scourge in his face. Iedolas knows what lies beneath, at least Ardyn knows that well enough to not further antagonize him with unnecessary theatrics.

“You assume I’d let you, Your Majesty,” Ardyn replies, threat naked and bold, the sort Iedolas is used to dealing with express violence in retaliation.

“You assume death would stop me,” Iedolas tells him, one eyebrow arched. “It would not. You will not do that again, Ardyn.” He turns back to the window, wide glass panes opening up to the sprawling skyline of Gralea. “My mind is my own. You’ve attempted vengeance on your own, and what has it gotten you? Nothing. Madness will not unshackle your curse nor bring low your enemies. You will heel, not because you want to, but because it will get you what you want.”

“What I want- “

“Is for the Gods to fall,” Iedolas interrupts, swallowing back a sneer when Ardyn growls, offended. So childish, for such a monstrous creature so old. He should know better, Iedolas thinks, but that, in itself, is the point. “You told me, the day I dragged you out that pit, that you didn’t care how it was done, only that it was. So stay your place, and it will be done.”

“We’ll see,” Ardyn scoffs, and leaves, back into the shadows, back into the theatrics.

Iedolas waits a moment, reorganizing his thoughts, hunting down the thread until he finds the precise spot Ardyn’s whispers began to muddle his mind. Regis Lucis Caelum and his son, hidden in Tenebrae.

Unguarded.

“Prepare my ship,” Iedolas commands his secretary, gears shifting and realigning in his head, “I depart for Fenestala Manor tonight.”

* * *

“Oh, settle down,” Iedolas says, watching a sword fall into Regis’ grip, and chuckles at the one look Regis gives Sylva, before he can help himself. “It is not you she has betrayed, Your Majesty.” And then, because they refuse to sit down again, as he’d found them when he’d first arrived, Iedolas snorts. “If I wanted you dead, you would be,” he says, with the indolent certainty of a man speaking the truth. “No, I’ve come here, to this hitherto undiscovered neutral ground, to discuss terms.”

Something fascinating happens, then, in Regis’ face. Something Iedolas had expected, but which is far more majestic, from up close: Regis’ face hardens with determination, becoming a marble carving of sheer stubbornness.

“Lucis will not surrender, Your Majesty,” he says, looking at Iedolas right in the eye.

And perhaps, Iedolas thinks, lips tugged sideway into the crooked smile his court knows well to fear, perhaps there’s enough Mors in Regis yet, for this to work.

“I don’t want you to surrender,” Iedolas tells them, delighted in the flicker of uncertainty in Sylva and more so by the stony countenance in Regis. “I want you to marry me.”

The sound Regis makes justifies this plan, in Iedolas’ personal opinion, even if the long term of it should fail. That’s a rare treat for him, to see his opponent so clearly disarmed, all at once.

“We are rulers, all present here,” Iedolas says, lips twitching again, into another of those smiles that his court lives hoping to never cause. “Let’s dispense with poetry and own up to it, there’s but two weapons in our arsenals: wars and politics. The last two hundred and fifty yeas have shown exactly the extent of war and where it’ll take us. I do not have another two hundred and fifty years to see this through, and I suspect neither do you. The alternative, to me, is clear.”

“What are you playing at, Iedolas?” Regis asks, dispensing with courtesies enough to make Iedolas sneer.

“You truly do not think a single marriage will resolve this, Your Majesty,” Sylva says, noticing the slip, trying to cover it up.

Sylva is his subject, after all, left to hold a crown on her head by leave of Iedolas’ mercy. She knows well how scant that is.

“One? No,” Iedolas points out, “but two might be enough.” He tilts his chin back, haughty, terrible and inexorable like the truth he so likes to deliver. Truth, in his experience, has a habit to linger, where lies would simply wither under the sun. “You will marry me,” he says, looking straight at Regis, seeing not the man, but the countless chains of command and sovereignty clinging to him as his vassals, “then, in time,” Iedolas goes on, nodding at Regis, “your Heir… _our_ Heir will marry hers. By the time _their_ Heirs are fit to rule, theirs will be a world unified under the banners of the Empire, and the prospect of War will seem like a very silly thing indeed.”

“And in return?” Regis asks, before Sylva can compose herself, and Iedolas notices and recalibrates once more.

“You will join me in completing the task I have begun,” Iedolas says, sharp, unyielding, “the Infernian fell with Solheim, as the Glacian has fallen to Niflheim. Now only four remain.”

“You would bring the wrath of the heavens upon us,” Sylva hisses, standing up straight and furious, “you would have them burn the world again? Is that the world our children would inherit from you?”

“The gods have already burned the world, and yet in the ashes we remained,” Iedolas points out, unmoved by her outrage. “Solheim fell because they knew not what they faced. I do. And I know gods can bleed.” He smirks, mocking. “Or are you too in love with the idea of slaughter, too willing to be cattle on their altars, to see what is truly at stake? Perhaps you think doing as you are told will be enough, the few sacrificed for the sake of the many. But you forget the gods do not play by the rules they set.” Iedolas turns slightly, eyeing the darkest corner of the room. “Do they, Your Majesty?”

Ardyn laughs, Scourge and all its horror in display, and laughs harder when Sylva’s hands tremble and Regis’ spine bows, just slightly, under the weight of what he’s witnessing.

“No,” Ardyn says, arms spread so they may see him for what he really is, “I’m afraid they do not.”

“You will be allowed free passage back to Lucis,” Iedolas tells Regis, mockingly gracious and knowing Regis knows it, “so you may have time to weigh your choice, Your Majesty. My proposal will be waiting for you, upon your return to Insomnia.”

* * *

Regis is cunning. Regis is sly. Regis is pious. Regis is smart.

Above all, Iedolas figures, Regis loves his son.

Six months later, Cor the Immortal walks into Gralea, and as Voice of the King, delivers Regis’ terms.

Iedolas expected as much, of course, some sort of proof that what he offered was not smoke and mirrors with little substance underneath. Altissia is evacuated, before the first strike, but by the time the sun sets, the corpse of the Hydraean lays strewn across the walls of water, flocks of godless gulls tearing into it, devouring it without a care for what it is. Iedolas would leave it there, until it was consumed, until nothing of it remained, but Altissia has needs and it is part of the point he wishes to make, that he looks after his own.

The body burns for a week and a half, lighting up the sky, so bright at night, Iedolas wonders if Regis can see the glow, from atop his precious Citadel.

Then Altissia is itself once more, people returned and no lives lost to the endeavor, just as he had planned.

* * *

Courtship of Kings, Iedolas writes Regis, in letters he lets his Voice ferry through, should be given the time and respect they merit.

Two years, then. To let the world come around the idea. To let Regis realize he means it.

Iedolas writes and writes, and when Regis gives him leave to corner the Archaean in Duscae, even without vows spoken yet, Iedolas knows he will succeed.

* * *

They’re married in Insomnia, rather than Gralea, as Iedolas had first decided. But he finds it’s just another thing he finds easy to give, when Regis asks for it. He’s very careful what he asks for, the Crystal King, now Emperor Consort. Very judicious of his words. Iedolas finds Regis knows to ask only for that he’ll be given, and finds himself giving in without much thought, sometimes. He’d accuse Ardyn of wanting to be thrown deep into a pit once more, but he knows better.

It’s novel, if nothing else, the realization.

He places it in its own little scale, inside his mind, no point in denying it and allowing it to become weakness, after all.

They are married in Insomnia, before the Crystal glimmering like poisoned wine inside its cage. Iedolas pulls Regis to his side, as Regis pulls his son into his, and leads him away from the scene when the Crystal bloats itself with light and threatens to shatter with the Draconian rage. Just as Ardyn had warned them it would.

Iedolas is ready for this, of course. He’s ready to bring down the mightiest of his foes.

The Fulgurian does it for him, instead.

Him and the Crystal and the Citadel, it is all gone by the time the storm relents, sky opening up for the first time in centuries above Insomnia, without the Wall in the way.

“He judged you just,” Regis tells Iedolas, as they watch the wreckage of divine wrath, the ghost of screaming fury as the Draconian fell along his Crystal.

In his arms, his son clutches the lapels of his suit, tiny fingers curled around the imperial band Iedolas wrapped around his shoulder during the ceremony.

“Gods can be right, sometimes,” Iedolas replies, hysteric delight bubbling under his lungs, forcefully schooled into place as he stares at his legacy coming into being. “But Gods are not our concern anymore.”

“No,” Regis says, and the hysteria bubbles harder, under Iedolas’ tongue, because he knows what it means, that Regis would look at him that way. “They are not.”

* * *

“You will do this,” Regis tells him, the night before Noctis’ coronation, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching with those curious eyes of his, as Iedolas goes through the nightly ritual of removing the signs of office from his person. “You will really do this.”

“Of course I will,” Iedolas says, because his husband is keen and sly and very prone to undisciplined thoughts, and that would be grave flaw, if Iedolas did not find himself enjoying the challenges it presented him over the years. “He is ready, Regis. It’s time.”

“I know he is,” Regis whispers, frowning as he rubs a thumb against the corded, cramping muscle of his thigh almost absently; at this point, the parting gift from the Wall as it shattered is barely worth his notice anymore. “But you said you’d abdicate in his favor, and now. You will.”

Iedolas snorts, looking at Regis across the mirror first, and then, upon closer inspection of the strange look on Regis face, he turns, to meet his eyes head on.

“I have spent my life conquering the world, Regis,” Iedolas says, borderline dry as he carefully slides the rings off his fingers. “I do not think it extravagant to feel entitled to spend my retirement actually enjoying it.”

Regis laughs, burying his face in his hands.

“No, I don’t suppose it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out on [DW](https://notavodkashot.dreamwidth.org/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/notavodkashot), if you'd like.


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